


The seeds you sow

by yina_ke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Metaphors, Oral Fixation, Pining, Tyrion is trollin'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18545425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yina_ke/pseuds/yina_ke
Summary: It starts, as all things do, with an idea.Theon/Robb, and the case for an oral fixation.





	The seeds you sow

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> This gif served as inspiration:
> 
> You're welcome.

Theon really doesn’t like that fucking dwarf.

He’s been watching him ever since he arrived in Winterfell. It’s only been a day, but he’s been spinning his web wherever he goes, whispering ideas into the ears of whoever will listen, eyes always watchful and bright with rapt attention. He always has that knowing little smirk on his face that Theon just wants to mop off of him, preferably with his fist.

“What are _you_ staring at?” Theon asks, voice tight. He looks down to his left to see a tiny, misshapen creature to his side as if knitted to his heels. “Are you following me?”

Lannister peers up at him, and the irony is palpable. “Of course, Theon Greyjoy. Wherever would I find more stimulating company than your good self? There can’t possibly be a better explanation for the fact why we’ve left the feast at the same time than that I’m following you.”

Theon snorts. “Headed back to Winter Town?”

“As stunned as I am by the beauty of your northern girls,” the Imp says, “I fear even a lion has limits to his stamina. If that’s where you’re headed, you’ll find them well-spent and as satisfied as cubs.”

What the hell is the dwarf even talking about? Theon can’t deny a certain level of interest, though. If nothing else, at least the dwarf isn’t boring.

Grin etched into the corner of his lips, he peers down again. “Would that you were the only competition I ever had to contend with.”

“You wound me.” By the gods, the dwarf sounds downright _bored_. “But what should you concern you far more is that you underestimate me.” 

Theon can’t help it: a chuckle presses past his throat. “You fancy yourself very smart, don’t you?” His eyes skid from the top of the dwarf’s blond curls down to his miniscule, leather-wrapped feet. “I guess we all work with what we’ve got.”

“So we do,” Lannister says easily. He suddenly stops walking, attention captured by a window to their right. Subdued music presses against it from the brightly-lit room beyond. The Stark table is in good view from here, and Theon’s eyes idly skip over the bright red heads of Robb, Sansa and Bran. 

Robb has his eyebrows drawn into a frown, his lips slack around a piece of sausage. His tongue, pressed to its side, flashes wetly with the moving chandeliers. 

Theon averts his eyes.

He hears a sharp intake of breath from his side.

When Theon looks down, he’s met with a knowing smile.

“... What?” Theon hisses. Discomfort skiddles down his spine. “What are you grinning at now?”

“Would you rather I cried?” Gods, that grin is _still_ there. Spreading, even. “I’m merely making some interesting observations here.”

Some part of Theon, the one more concerned with self-preservation mayhaps, wails, _don’t ask, don’t even bother, just keep walking,_ but what he says instead is, “Oh? Enlighten me.”

The Imp’s eyes narrow, and Theon knows he’s made a colossal mistake.

“I was just thinking it’s heartwarming,” Lannister says, smirk snake-quick and irony palpable. “How undeniably _close_ you are to the son of your captor.”

“A survivor adapts,” Theon snaps. “This is where I live now.” Not home, never that, but good enough. When it comes down to it, the here and now beats the sea-tang flavored nostalgia of his youth.

“You’re fond of whores, aren’t you?”

The utter randomness of the question makes Theon’s head spin. “What?” He narrows his eyes, then gives  a short, breathless laugh. “Have the songs of my glory reached so far and wide?”

“I should not even deign this with a response, but -- well, I love them, as well, as you may have heard. I remember this particular one, back in King’s Landing, by the name of Myla. Stunning wench, she was, with teats a lesser man might take the black for -- and her mouth. Oh, her mouth.”

Theon waits a beat. Then another. “Your _point_?”

The Imp chuckles, low and dark. “Oh, she was just _wicked_ with her mouth. The most ferocious little cocksucker in all the seven kingdoms. And the thing is, dear lad: the signs were everywhere. If she thought I wasn’t looking, she was licking her lips, trailed her hot tongue along the bottom one. Every piece of food she put into her mouth, she’d prod and slicken it up. And when she’d finally take my cock into her mouth….” he looks up and stares straight at Theon. “The face of someone feasting on the sweetest berries from the Summer Islands.”

Theon is stunned speechless.

Lannister sighs. “You’re lucky that at least you dress well; you’re not like to dazzle the lordling with your wit. Then, if you’ll excuse me…” He yanks his gaze away from the window, and turns to leave, takes one step and another --

“Wait,” Theon says. “ _Dazzle the lordling_? What in the Seven hells do you mean? Don’t put strange ideas into my head, Imp.”

To this, the Lannister lordling does one of the last things Theon expected: his face melts into what can only be described as an expression of complete and utter _victory_ . “Tell me, Greyjoy, when you look around you, what is the origin of all you see? Even more big picture -- even one more step back -- what is the beginning of anything, any action, any change, anything that ever happened in the history of this very continent we’re standing on today. The origin of all there is and has ever been, the origin of civilization itself, if you will. I’m talking about ideas, Greyjoy, _ideas_! You know why they’re so powerful? Because they’re living things. They’re alive.”

“How fortunate, then, that they aren’t dead,” Theon says. “After all, only what is alive can die.”

The dwarf looks at him intently for a moment. Then, he shrugs.  “Well, you proved to me more interesting than approximately half the people at that feast, so I suppose that’s a minor victory.” He rubs his hands together, and blows on them. “I wish you a pleasant rest of your night.”

Theon watches the Imp walk away until the darkness has swallowed him whole.

The light from the window pulls in his attention again. His gaze wanders over the attendants and the cramped seats lined with dutifully presented Stark children. As always, his searching eyes land on Robb.

Robb, who has a single, red grape pressed against his lip. His attention is captured by something that Poole is telling him, but his lips stay right there, mouthing at the grape without a hint of self-consciousness.

Then Robb’s eyes flit away from the stewart’s face and jump at the window, and right at Theon, and they look at each other through the stretch of the room, into the cool of the night air beyond.

Robb’s lips quirk into a soft smile.

Theon feels his own lips echo the smile and that thing in his stomach, the one that that gods-forsaken dwarf has left in there to twitch and turn, gives another _jolt_.

Theon had planned on going straight home. Now, he thinks that Winter Town would be a good alternative, indeed.

He turns away from the window, and doesn’t think about Robb and his smile and his _mouth_ again for the rest of the night.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t think of it again until the next day. When he does think of it again, it is, of all places, in the godswood.

Winterfell feels cramped and full and dizzyingly alive with all these southron lords and ladies. The air is charged with an undercurrent of opportunity. Even the whores in Winter Town started charging extra, pointing to the generosity of the southron visitors with sly, lipstick-stained smirks.

It excites Theon and in equal parts annoys him, so when he’s ordered by Lord Stark to fetch his lady wife at the godswood, he bows out of the castle gratefully.

He finds lady Stark still huddled there, in front of the blood-red tree, gazing up at the leaves as if they held all the answers to her questions. Theon knows she keeps to the Seven, but he doesn’t question why she seeks counsel with the old gods now -- any sort of respite sits well with him, right now.  
  
Especially when he has the shadow of a hangover still sinking teeth into the edges of his brain.

He stands a respectful distance away, waiting for the silent dialogue between the divine and the lady to come to its conclusion. He shifts from one foot to the other, his body itching for movement.

“Greyjoy,” he hears the drawl of Septa Mordane to his right. “Straitjackets were invented for boys such as yourself. Leave an old woman to her task, will you?”

Theon eases a smirk into the corner of his lips. “What’s the matter? Are you not feeling rejuvenated by the energy in the air since the King arrived?”

“I could do without some of his entourage,” the septa says.

“Your words to the ears of the gods.” The image of a short, stocky person cuts into sharp relief in his mind’s eye. He shakes his head. “What are you doing there, anyway?”

She’s crouched down on the soil, her hands stained with the mud. Theon watches as she presses the soil down and pats it into a mound. “Done. Come a few more months, we should hopefully have another magnificent tree sprouting next to this one.”

“Another heart tree?”

Septa Mordane’s face quirks in disapproval. “Years and years you’ve been here, and you still don’t know that there is but one in a godswood. No, this will be a small, sharp beech tree, to frame the tree of the gods.” She claps her hands. Pieces of dirt burst toward the ground. “The seed has been sown, and the fruit shall burst forth.”

“Sounds familiar,” Theon says with a hint of filth to his voice.

The septa gives him a dirty look. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, anyway?”

“Soon as the lady’s done with her contemplation. But good talking to you, septa. Been a while, huh?”

“Riveting as always,” she says, and straightens herself to her full height.

She turns to leave. Once her footsteps scatter away, the silence of the godswood swallows Theon up whole.

Theon looks at the straight back of Lady Stark. Snowflakes glint in her long red hair. _Such a stunning color_. He’s always half-seriously thought what it would be like to be in bed with someone with that color hair, and watch the light of the candles zip along the gleaming strands.

At long last, the lady rises, and turns to face him. She bites on her lower lips, eyes vacant in contemplation.

Inanely, he thinks, _Robb’s got her lips._  

 

\---

 

Theon spends the rest of the day in a bit of a haze.

The furtive glances he manages to sneak at Lord Stark’s troubled eyes promise nothing good. He sees the queen and her brother march through the castle once or twice, their heads put together in animated discussion, backs regal and footsteps clicking. He tries to get off with a scullery maid, but she rejects him, tells him forlornly that Snow decided to take the black, as if Theon gave a fuck about that sour-faced bastard.

All of Winterfell seems to swell until the fabric of normality cracks at the seams.

Theon entertains himself by sparring with Bran for an hour or two, until, when the boy _almost_ makes him lose his footing, he decides he’s just not up for it today.

“Seven hells,” he curses, and throws his practice sword on the ground. “Bleeding, gods-forsaken whore of a day.”

The courtyard is empty, so he thinks himself safe of any reproach. Which is why, when Robb appears on his side, Theon _jumps_.

“I appreciate your colorful language, but Bran is but ten,” Robb says. He bends down to pick up Theon’s discarded sword. “All spent today, are you?” Good-natured humor lies beneath the practiced, expected admonishment. 

“Theon’s just mad because I nearly won,” Bran says.

“Did you, now?” Robb’s eyes dance with mirth. “Making our house proud already. Makes it all the better that I got something for you.”

He pats his cloak, and it’s then that Theon notices the bulge beneath it.

Bran’s eyes narrow in interest, the sparring forgotten. “More of the chocolate and blackberry treats?”

  
“Better,” Robb says with relish. He reaches into his cloak, and withdraws a small package. “Wonderfully sticky sweets from Dorne. They’re called _caramels_.”

Bran looks skeptical, but his age betrays him when he greedily pats at Robb’s hand, yanking the package away from him. “Are they any good?”

“The best I’ve tasted.” Robb straightens his back and turns to Theon. He darts a glance over to Bran to assure himself he’s suitably occupied before he mouths, _come with me_. 

A multitude of thoughts compete for Theon’s attention all at once. He hushes them, settles a tightly-brimming sheen of willful non-acknowledgement over all of them as his feet follow Robb, eyes drawn to the ground.

A variety of half-frozen footsteps skid past his line of vision. He follows the fresh ones made by Robb. The fur of his coat tickles his nose and the line of his cheeks.

He knows where they’re going after a couple of minutes. They dive into the castle, round a few corners, exit through a door. Though he’s expected it, his breath hitches in when they spill out into the open and the heart tree fans out before them like a blood-red starburst.

 _Here for the second time today_ , he thinks idly. _Hopefully that'll score me some favors with the crusty gods._ His eyes dart over to where Septa Mordane planted the tree earlier. It’s but a mound of dirt now; Robb sweeps right past it, approaching the heart tree.

Theon follows after another beat.

“Finally some peace and quiet. The castle's been so busy I can barely hear myself think,” Robb says. His eyes are drawn to the multitude of winding branches stretching out above. “So beautiful.”

Theon looks at Robb. His face. One feature in particular. “Mmhmm.”

“What’s up with you today, anyway?” Robb teases. He walks over to the tree and sits down just before it, one knee propped up and the other leg stretched out. “And you left kind of early last night, too. Don’t tell me you got off with one of the southron girls.”

A full minute passes during which Theon does nothing but stare, the carousel of his thoughts stopped and held by an iron grip.

“Theon?”

A _creak_ , the block recedes, and Theon’s thoughts start to turn.

Jostled into action, he takes a few strides toward the tree, and plops himself down next to Robb.

“Nothing, nothing. Too -- too much to drink, I guess.” He pauses. “Ran into the dwarf last night, who spouted filthy nonsense.”

“From what little I’ve seen of him, that seems to be a thing he would do.” Robb pulls another bag from his cloak. Pulling it open, his long fingers disappear beneath the cloth. “Want any of those caramels?”

Theon shakes his head and looks at Robb. Blue eyes meet blue across the breath-steamed space between them.

Shrugging, Robb pops the piece of confectionary into his mouth. His tongue flashes pink, once, bright against the mottled  frame of the furs lining his face.

  
Clearing his throat, Theon dares to prod. “So, is there something you wanted to talk about? I take it there's a reason why you brought me here.”

Robb’s jaw chews in slow, measured movements. He swallows, opens his mouth to say something, then pauses. He bites his lower lip, runs a tongue across his lips, and catches a caramel crumb hidden in the corners.

Theon _stares_.

The last crumb disappears in Robb’s mouth and his lips are moving and then Theon hears:

“King Robert asked my father to be his Hand. He accepted. They’ll be riding out in a couple of days. It’s not just my father who’ll be going: Arya’s going with him, too. And Sansa. Jory. Half of the household, really. Then Jon announced he was going to join the Night’s Watch, and that _he’ll_ be going too.”

Theon blinks and his eyes lift from Robb’s mouth to his eyes. He’s heard the news about Jon, but -- “Lord Stark, the Hand of the King?” He tests out the idea, weighs and maps it, see where it fits. “Makes sense, what else would the fat King bother to come all this way for? Rather fewer boars and whores on a bandit-infested kingsroad than in the capital.”

Getting no reaction from Robb, Theon squints.

There’s... emotion right there, on Robb’s face, a whole mess of them, tangled and writhing. Theon’s body tenses in discomfort. He doesn’t know what to do with feelings, how to handle them, how to relate to them. He never learned, not on Pyke, and not in Winterfell, either.

Theon names the one emotion on Robb’s face that he _can_ identify with confidence. He bites down the jagged edge with which he’s learned to say those words, schools himself to ask it as neutrally as he can:

“Are you scared, Stark?”

Silence hangs between them.

Theon watches Robb’s face, the interplay between the conflicting emotions, the way he weighs up several responses and discards them and finally settles on, “Aye. And no. Scared. Excited. Elated. _Terrified_. Hopeful. All of it and none of it, and I don’t really know, I -- ah, well.” He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “Fuck.”

  
“Ah.” Theon loves it when Robb swears, all the more because it’s so rare. “Feels good saying that,  dunnit?”

“You know, it really does,” Robb says, voice breathy in revelation. “Should’ve started cursing years ago.”

“Finally my influence has taken root. You’re off to a great reign already, my lord.”

Robb laughs, finally, good and free and in the way that makes his eyes crease.

Theon echoes the mood with a grin of his own. “You see?  Lots of things will change now, sure, but some will stay the same -- take me, for example. I’ll still be here, taking up the finest spot on the non-Stark table, by your side, making you blush with lecherous stories.” He points at his chest. “This one right here? Not going anywhere.”

Robb’s breath streams out with a chuckle that takes shape and floats in the air. “He _better_ not. I might have to count on you, indeed.” Robb falls silent again.

Theon waits for him to collect his thoughts.

“It’s a little strange that… I’ve been getting prepared for this all my life, and now that it’s here, it seems -- unreal. It’s like one of those hour glasses that the Dornishmen brought along the other fortnight. You know, the glassy clocks filled with trickling sand. Meant to measure time.” He pauses to work out his metaphor. “Everything right now seems like that, like the sand’s been draining all this time, a little more and a little more while I wasn’t looking, and I remember it only when I finally look up, and -- suddenly, there’s no more sand. It’s empty. Time’s up, just like that.”

“You ruling Winterfell -- you taking over for your father one day --  it was a certainty, sure, but, all this time it hasn’t been reality. It didn’t feel real, because well, it _wasn’t_. It was just an idea, right? Now it’s taken shape. Now it lives.”

Robb gives Theon an amused look. “Well, that’s uncharacteristically poignant. You know. For you.”

“My extensive knowledge of pointy things occasionally extends to the poignant.”

Robb throws back his head and laughs. There’s just a hint of something _dirty_ in it, and he says, “Thank you, Theon,” with a voice that is so nakedly grateful that it makes Theon’s throat tighten, and then -- and then --

It’s at this point that, with an internal _clank_ that reverberates only in Theon’s skull, doors heave open. Memories rush in, so many and so fast that they crowd out all other thoughts and plunge into every crevice.

Robb, years ago, on his back, after they’d raided the kitchen, a lazy tongue probing at the sugar-smeared corners.

Robb, last month, tongue twirling at the tip of his finger in thought.

Robb, lower lip sliding out poutily while his eyes raked up and down Theon’s newest doublet. This was fucking _last week._

Robb, looking like he’s -- like he --

“You okay?” Robb asks. “You seem…” his eyes drag down along Theon’s face. “... distracted.”

Theon hears nothing: he still stumbles through a roaring haze. Heat scores itself across his cheeks.

 _Fucking dwarf_ . He clutches at this thread of thought, hoists himself up. _Fucking dwarf, this is all his fault, fucking dwarf with his poisonous, rotting lies that take root and sprout, fucking --_

“Give me --” Theon breathes out the words, and saying something, anything, steadies him somehow. He clears his throat, and tries again: “Give me one -- of those caramel things.”

Robb quirks an eyebrow, looks as if he’s wavering between letting it go or insisting on Theon to tell him what’s up. After a beat, then two, Robb shrugs and hands Theon a handful of sweets.

“Just -- just one will do, thanks.” Theon pops the piece into his mouth, and chomps. Sweetness explodes on his tongue, sticks to his teeth, cloys at the back of his throat.

Robb, meanwhile, slides a piece of confectionary in between his lips. His eyes are still trained on Theon, and toggle slightly between two distinct spots within the space. Robb’s jaw starts to work, and Theon watches Robb’s eyes lose focus and roll to the side in pleasure, and it’s then that Theon realizes that --

The way that Robb eats, the way he touches and moves his mouth -- it’s _sensual_ . That’s what it is. _Sensual_.

And then there’s one thought, just one, that takes center stage. One thought so... powerful (grotesque) (enchanting) (wrong) ( _brilliant_ )  that it makes all others scurry away

What would Robb Stark look like…

What would Robb Stark look like with Theon’s cock in his mouth?

And with that single thought alone, Theon’s rock hard in his breeches.

“Your lips --” Theon breaks off.

“Hmmm?” Robb shoots him a quizzical look, mouth already working on another piece of confectionary.

It spills out of Theon in a rush: “They’re _gorgeous_.”

Robb blinks. Confusion starts as a crease between his brows, then spreads across his features like wildfire. “I ---”

And then Theon thinks, _to the Seven hells with it_ , and anyway his philosophy has always been closer to 'shoot first and think later' and he’s done pretty well for himself thus far, oh aye he has, hasn’t he? And anyway, Robb will be lord soon and days like these will be numbered, things will never be the same again after today, and, and, and, _fuck it_. If he’s going to fuck up he might as well fuck up royally, innit? Right. He’s doing this. He’s fucking doing this

So, in less than a fraction of the time it’s taken him thus far to ruminate on the vague that Robb may have an oral fixation and that he, Theon, might be _interested_ in this information,  he scoots closer and leans in and bridges the gap and presses his lips to Robb in a crushing kiss.

  
Robb stiffens against him. He opens his mouth in surprise to say something -- “ _Mmph_!” -- but what he was going to say, Theon will never know. Grinding Robb’s jaw open with his own, he silences all sound with his tongue.

 _Sweet,_ Theon’s brain rattles helplessly _. He tastes so, so sweet_.

There is neither response nor resistance. Robb seems frozen, back completely straight, mouth slack and passive.

Theon runs on pure, white-hot instinct now. Good thing he’s kissed enough people to be skilled without having to think about it. Good thing that passion runs in his blood. He fists a handful of Robb’s hair and _pulls_ , and Robb’s jaw angles up and his mouth opens wider, wide enough for Theon to push in _deeper_. Slick heat slides together, some saliva escapes at the corner of their mouths and dribbles down both their chins.

 _Gods_ , Theon thinks, near-delirious with lust. _It’s so good. He tastes so good, feels so good, even the burn of his beard, the roughness of his tongue, the hardness of his shoulders, and I --_

Footsteps pat down the snow somewhere nearby.

It’s Robb who gathers his wits first. He breaks the kiss by jerking away. They look at each other for one fevered moment -- Robb’s face thrums with a soft pink, eyes wide and glassy, lips smeared -- and then they both scoot away from each other as fast as they can.

Theon’s still _hard,_ too _. Fuck_ this fucking timing.

Theon runs a quick hand through his hair, and reaches into his breeches to adjust his cock.

Robb’s eyes widen as he watches Theon’s hand disappear, just for one delicious moment which Theon can’t help but echo with the hint of a smirk -- but no time for that now, the footsteps are so close now, sure to round the corner any second, and Theon’s _just_ removed his hand from his breeches when they’re _there_.

 _Oh, fuck me,_ Theon thinks, as his eyes land on Lord Stark, King Robert, Queen Cersei -- and the Imp.

Lord Stark shoots them a quizzical look, and for the first time, Theon is actively glad that he is to be Hand of the King -- he’s probably got enough other things on his mind to dwell on the question of why they are there and what they might have been doing.

“Robb… Theon,” Lord Stark says, half in greeting and half in surprised confirmation. He glances back to the row of visitors following him into the godswood. “You’ve met my son Robb. He’s --” Lord Stark grasps for words.

“Very pious,” Theon supplies.

Robb nods. “I came here to pray for health and safety for your journey down south, as well as for prosperity for Winterfell, for after it’s been entrusted to me by my lord father. I see my father is giving you a tour of our godswood; I do hope you find peace in our humble place of worship.” Robb bows his head toward the royal couple. “Your Grace.” And toward the Imp. “Lord Tyrion.”

And that lie had been so bloody good that Theon is tempted to give an appreciative whistle.

"Hah!” King Robert guffaws. “Handsome _and_ well-mannered. And a decent swordsman, too, from what I hear. This is the one you made on your wedding night, eh, Ned? You’d make an excellent playmate for our Joffrey, lad. Don’t let the cold up North freeze off your balls, aye?”

“Robert.” The queen’s gaze is colder than any northern storm. “We’re in a place of worship.”

The king shrugs his massive frame. “Aye, aye.” His eyes fall onto Theon. “And you are?”

Theon straightens his back, making himself appear as tall as possible. “I’m Theon Greyjoy,” he begins somberly, “heir to the Iron Islands, son of Baelon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and --”

“Aye,” the King cuts him off. “Your ward, Ned, innit? Very well.”

The slight makes Theon’s cheeks burn. How _dare_ this fat king not even let him finish? How dare he interrupt the last living son of Balon Greyjoy, the blood of Pyke?

It's Tyrion who steps in to diffuse the tension. “From what I hear, we’re all the same in the eyes of the old gods, ward or king,” he says. He peers up at the leaves. “Magnificent, truly, an incredibly color indeed -- how long from seed to full tree, Lord Stark, do you know?”

The tension halts in Theon’s body. One after another, his muscles relax, his jaw slides out of its lock, and he bows his head to beat his retreat.

He throws a look at Robb only to see him already marching back toward the castle.

Theon starts to move, and _just_ as he’s about to flicker out of Lord Stark’s line of vision and get past his entourage, he catches the Imp’s eyes.

Lord Stark and the royal couple have already approached the heart tree. The Imp stands a few steps behind, looks at Theon -- and gestures at his own chin. _Pointedly_.

Theon blinks.

 _Fuck_. _Is there still --_

He wipes at his mouth. When he removes his arm, his furs glint with the traces of saliva.

Something else, sharper but no less treacherous, glints in the dwarf’s eyes.

 

\--

 

When Theon stumbles back into the warm embrace of the castle, the tension seeps right out of him.

“Gods.” Vertigo washes over him; Theon braces his arm against the castle wall. “That was -- close, but well-played on the explanation, Stark, I’m sure they have no --”

Movement flashes in the corner of Theon’s eyes, then the worlds races past as he feels the front of his coat being grabbed and pulled at. Stumbling forward, strong hands close around Theon’s arms, which then give him a _shove_ \--

“ _Oww_.” Theon’s back collides with the wall. His head spins like a mechanic part that’s been whipped out of its position. “What?” Then his mind finds purchase and locks back into place enough for him to see what’s going on, and to look into Robb’s face.

Which is blazing white-hot fury right at Theon.

“What,” Robb begins, and every word that follows _cuts_ , “in the Seven hells do you think you’re doing?”

“What the _fuck_ are you so angry with me  for?” Theon counters. He can taste his own heart at the back of his throat. “You act as if I hit you rather than kissed you.”

“Would that you _did_ hit me, Greyjoy. What’s the meaning of this?” Robb comes in closer, crowds Theon against the wall. “Why did you --?”

Theon’s breath catches in his throat. He releases it, finally, in a low, probing tone. “I know for a fact you’re not virginal enough not to know what a kiss is and what it does. What, do you think it was a jape? Do you think I _wanted_ us to nearly get caught? Huh?” Anger stirs in Theon’s belly and sharpens his words into cold arrogance. “Is that _really_ what you think, you obstinate blockhead of a Stark?”

“Shut up.” Robb’s voice is as tight as a strung rope. “I tell you about what’s going on in my life, open up to you, I speak of the lack of stability, and _this_ is how you choose to react?” Robb crowds Theon in closer. “Why?”

“I _told_ you why,” Theon says. “I wanted to. I’ve been watching you. You and your lips, your mouth.” He speaks over the thunder of his galloping heart: “I needed to taste you, okay? I needed to -- I wanted you. Do you get it now? Huh?”

And Robb _does_ get it.

Theon sees it in the way his eyes widen. The way his blown pupils narrow down in thought. The way the hand at the front of Theon’s cloak slackens.

Robb takes a step back, nearly stumbling over his feet. He looks at Theon out of unreadable eyes. Color sits in a muted pink across his cheek bones.

“We will not speak of this,” he says. “To anyone. Do you understand?”

Pain squeezes Theon’s chest. His head spins in refusal to accept what he’s just heard.

  
“Do you understand?” Robb repeats, voice low but commanding.

“Aye.” Theon draws his eyes to the stony ground. The bitterness of his words pools in his mouth.  “Aye... m’lord.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> It's been soooo long since I played with Theon and Robb, but I still love these boys silly. I recently rewatched Season 1 of GoT, re-fell into heady love for this 'ship. It's felt very natural to go back into Theon's head and write this story. Tyrion has also been an absolute blast to write, as well.
> 
> Second chapter will be from Robb's POV. I can't wait to re-visit his head!
> 
> Comments are loved!! I'm so completely out of the fandom I haven't talked to anyone fannish in yeaaaars. I've been writing fanfic for about 15 years, but my last one is about _five years ago_ , oh my gods. Feels so good to write again.
> 
> I'm aiming to upload chapter 2 next week. The rating may go up. ;)


End file.
